


The Power of a God

by borrowedphrases



Category: Kamen Rider Gaim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Gen, Post-Canon, Surprise Relationship, WriteBet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-02-09 09:39:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1978020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/borrowedphrases/pseuds/borrowedphrases
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryouma returns to the ruins of Zawame City to visit his King.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Power of a God

**Author's Note:**

  * For [butyoumight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/butyoumight/gifts).



> Written for [WriteBet](http://writebet.tumblr.com/) Day Five. "Writer's Choice"
> 
> No prompt for this one, just a very belated birthday present for my wife.

The crackle of dry fallen leaves and brittle twigs beneath his boots echos off crumbling concrete and rusting metal walls as he makes his way through the old ruins. The abandoned streets grow more narrow with each passing year as the flora spreads. Trees stand where fountains used to flow, where roads used to wind, heavy with fruit laden vines. They grow taller than the ruins, covering the buildings with their canopy, shadowing the city from the harsh light of the sun. The vines are everywhere, creeping through holes in concrete and alloy, enveloping long abandoned vehicles and slowly claiming the lingering remnants of the people that once thrived there, committing them to earth, claiming them for organic purposes.

Ryouma plucks a fruit from a nearby vine as he continues his trek, sloughing off the leathery outer covering to get to the soft flesh beneath. There's that old hesitance after he discards the peel, just before he brings the fruit to his mouth, one born of old ghosts and long laid to rest fears. He shakes it off quickly enough, remembering that he was once a man of science. The fruit is sweet, but not cloyingly so, refreshing, full of life sustaining nutrients, and he savors it as he continues his journey.

Four times a year he returns to these ruins, to the place the rest of civilization has willfully forgotten. No, not forgotten; they fear it. Fear the power here, the power that once changed the world. With his help, with his guidance.

The old tower is barely recognizable anymore, he only knows what it once was because of its location, at the very center of Zawame, where it used to watch over a shining, hopeful city. It's not a proper tower anymore, not like it was, tree-shaped and proud. Now it's just a winding set of crude circular stairs that loop around a wide pillar. Up through vines, up through trees and stone and steel. 

At the very top is the dais, and there sits the cathedra. There is no enclosure over it, no roof nor canopy, only open air. Long ago, before the trees grew so tall and the vines began choking out the light, one could view the whole city from this height. The King could look out and survey his capitol.

Ryouma breathes in deep, filtering the heavy air through his gills and gathering his courage. He has never been a timid man, but as his youth has waned he has learned to practice some level of restraint, allowed some sense of caution to creep into him. He approaches the throne, his boots clicking against bare stone.

The Monarch shifts every so slightly, just the barest glide of his taloned foot to one side, and plants spring up beneath him, spreading outward to create a path to soften Ryouma's steps. Ryouma bows his head, greyed hair covering his eyes, and mutters a few soft words of thanks. His King does not respond.

When he reaches the throne he drops to his knees, much more slowly than he used to, his aging bones weary from the journey. He places his long fingers on the grassy floor and bends to touch his forehead to the dais, he mutters a few words, then remembers himself, and makes the switch from Femushinmu to his old language, though he's become rusty at it in recent years as his mind slowly begins to betray him. "Forgive my delay, my Lord."

The King moves then, sitting forward in his throne. Dust and dead leaves and flower petals fall from his armor as he moves. A clawed hand rests on Ryouma's head, as a raspy, but comforting voice answers him. "It's all right. I'm just glad to see you, old friend."

Ryouma closes his eyes, relief washing over him. He lifts his head just high enough to kiss the back of the King's hand, eyes closed. His Lord's scales feel smooth against his lips, and he sighs, then breathes in, the scents of growth and decay overwhelming him for a moment.

"Have you come to sit with me?" The King's voice is gentle, but it echoes through the open air with a heavy power, as if many voices rest just beneath it. "Please look at me, Ryouma."

The old scientist opens his eyes to gaze at the face of his God, and he is unashamed by the tears of joy that suddenly trail down his cheeks. His face is virtually unchanged from what Ryouma remembers from years ago, save for the scales that creep up from his shoulders along his neck, not quite reaching his jaw. A golden crown rests on his brow, the stone seed from a fruit worked into the metal, rather than a jewel. 

"Yes, my King." Ryouma answers, finally, breathless as his relief continues to courses through him. "I've come to sit with you. May I?"

"Of course." The King brings his hand back, and brushes off his armored robes. Ryouma waits for his beckoning hand before he moves, kneeling on the dais and resting his head on his Sovereign's knee. They sit quietly like that for a long time, the King's claws combing through Ryouma's hair. They don't speak much, they rarely do. Ryouma sits in quiet adoration, and his Deity feels less lonely, for a time. It's never brought up, but deep down Ryouma knows, knows by the sadness he always sees in his King's eyes, and the light that seems to creep back into them from his presence, inadequate as it is.

As those kind fingers glide through his hair, Ryouma gradually feels his weariness lighten, feels the aches in his body lessen, the sharpness returns to his vision, and the quickness to his mind. He sighs in quiet contentment, as his hair regains its luster and softness, and the lines by his eyes begin to smooth.

When the sun begins to set - he can see it through the trees behind the throne, the star framing the King's head like a crowning halo, perfectly aligned - the hand moves to caress his cheek, expertly mindful of his claws. "Will you stay with me this time?"

It's like this every visit, always the same question, always the same sad loneliness. For countless years on end. Each time he almost says yes, each time he almost agrees. But he still has so much to do elsewhere. So many _many_ things...

"I can't," He bows his head, dark hair covering his face. "Not just yet. Perhaps next time."

The smile his Lord gives him is so sad he almost, as every time, takes back his statement. Almost rests his head back down on that steady knee and gives in. It would be so easy to just accept, accept the peace that his King offers, so easy to erase that look of sadness from those lonely eyes.

But he can't. He still has so much he needs to atone for.

Ryouma stands, brushing the leaves and vines from his clothes. "Please forgive me, my Lord."

The Monarch shifts, settling back in his cathedra, his back straight and steady. His gaze slides past Ryouma, staring out toward the East and the rest of the world. "I've already forgiven you."

Ryouma nods, and turns to head back down the tower's stairs.

Once he's out of sight of the King, he pauses, and glances back over his shoulder, one hand pressed to the cool, vine crept wall. "Please forgive me, Kouta."


End file.
